Stalking the Bumbler
'Brightstar Blvd ' ----- :'' This long street is cleaned up rather nicely. A white sidewalk made from some type of poured plastic stretches along both sides of the modest road whose median is lined with freshly-planted saplings. The frames, or in some cases, the completed structures of various shops, offices, and restaurants are located in alloted plots of land.'' ----- A balmy night finds Brightstar Boulevard still liberally filled with strollers in spite of the later hours; out for food, drinks, or just to enjoy the temperate weather. Lounging upon one end of a bench, one boot propped upon a knee and elbow hanging over the seat's back, Smoketrail absently laps at the last gristle and meat still clinging to a large dribgib drumstick purchased from a nearby stand as she watches the pedestrians. Though she makes no effort to conceal her approach, when a youngish Martian woman with hair scooped haphazardly back in a red bandanna slides onto the opposite end of the bench? Her voice is low. Conspiratorial. Green eyes peer severely over the top of dark black sunglasses, and she leans in, one kevlar glove gripping the crown of the bench's backrest. "Th' black bumbler," she whispers urgently, "does th' Timonese Two-Step in th' rain." A sharp twitch of tail-tip behind the bench, where the appendage has comfortably slid through the gap between seat and backing, and the muzzle eventually tips so that slitted orange eyes may regard the human. "It gets wet," comes the rumbled response, made up on the spot, one keen canine bared in a toothy grin, "and slips. Pity." Mika cups a hand around a cigarette as she lights up, shielding it from the draft of a passing hoverbus. Her headscarf's tails flap after the vehicle, as if in pursuit. "Th' 'unter shoots 't," the Jackal goes on, pausing only to puff, "'s thirty sandtooth at th' Pillow, they say. They say some ugly rogue wot with a mess o' 'air an' 'n identity crisis's gonna buy 't fer 'er good-lookin' friend." Another steady look, a long, long stream of white smoke. "They say." "Well, add it to the pot, then," Smoketrail drawls, some of the humor fading as she settles a little deeper into her seat, a negligent toss of the denuded thighbone sinking it into a trash receptacle a dozen feet away. "Seems there's a whole lotta things being said these days, that maybe one should think twice about." That seems to disappoint Mika, who swipes her shades off and folds them into the interior pocket of that dusty old jacket. "So wot yer sayin' is, yer not gonna buy me any grub." Smoke blasts from her nostrils, rather like the bumbler in question. "Huh. Let's 'member which one o' us's rich, 'ere, Smokie..." "Oh, I beg your pardon, you threw me with that part about the ugly rogue. I thought you were referring to yourself," comes the ready retort, and this time, ears prick and swivel with a better mood. "And nobody's rich enough when three growing kits're involved," she muses with a slanted look. "But I can offer a dribgib leg in a pinch, at least. What're you up to, now?" This time, when Mika blows out that acrid cloud, she is not so considerate of sensitive feline noses. It hits Smoketrail in the face like a brick wall. "More where that came from," she assures the big cat dryly. "Talk t'me 'bout th' Battleclaw." Oh, the ears snap back down flat, nearly out of sight against the fur bristled in irritation. A sharp chuff of a sneeze - similarly returned, direct to sender - and a paw sweeps rapidly through the space between them. "You called me, remember," she growls, eyes slitted against both smoke and exasperation. "And I would think the news would have covered enough of him. That ain't exactly a low-profile position." Always one to delight in the feather-ruffling of others, Mika just grins, flashing a row of pearly whites in a smile that just begs to be slapped off. "Aw, but th' press don't say nothin' good 'bout no one. I'' shoul' blinkin' know," she points out, shifting her weight to tuck one leg beneath her. "Buddy o' mine tol' me 'e was catchin' some 'eat from some Sandwalker'r 'nother, an' it 'appens I owe 'im a favor. So uh... yeah." A beat. "Wot's a Sandwalker? That some kinda crab?" Smoketrail's upper lip peels back in a silent snarl at the mention of the Sandwalker name, before the expression is turned into a grin - that, uncoincidentally, bares just as many teeth. "They're just as lowly, in my opinion," she drawls, one paw abruptly stretching out with claws extended to snip the burning tip off the cigarette, extinguishing it. "They're the noble family that's caused the most trouble for New Alhira - and its former leader. The latest one, Twinstripes, is looking t'get the latest ones debunked." "Oh. So can ye kill 'im? I really 'ave 'lotta stuff wot needs doin'," Mika rattles off nonchalantly, quite as if she were asking the freelancer to remember eggs on her next trip to market. She frowns when she sucks the butt end of the cig, though, and for a scant second is genuinely confused... until she's not. "Look, I don't ''shave yer kind when th' fuzz gets me sneezin'. Bollocks." Smoketrail casually flicks ash off clawtips even as she throws the woman an incredulous look. "As convenient as that may be, why're you trying to push that off on me? Even in my less decorous youth, I didn't accept those types of jobs." A discreet glance around is masked as the stretch of her neck for potential eavesdroppers, before she is slumping grouchily into the corner formed by the bench's armrest. "'Sides, he's just a lotta talk right now. Someone should talk back. He disappears, and then suddenly people'll take notice, wondering what he said that's so important that it was worth his scabby hide..." Mika, far less concerned with who may be listening and why, spits her dead deathstick onto the pavement and wipes at her mouth with a sleeve. "Longtooth's talkin' back. Longtooth Windracer? Married Swiftfoot Starchaser. She's one o' mine," she relates. "Look, 'e grabbed me on Quaquan, tol' me 'e needed dirt fer slingin', an' I bloody owe 'im. But bollocks, Smokes, I play in dirt, I don't dig 't up." Sighing her frustration, the spacer knits her brow, studying the ground. "Couldn't think o' nobody wot'd want t' see this mucker get 'is more'n ye an' yers." Smoketrail is silent a moment, but a definite brooding air has settled about her. Eyes fixed across the street, upon the welcoming light spilling from Glimmercoat's windows, she husks with acidic fervor, "If I didn't think I'd be helping his case, I'd be happy to take care of the wretch, free of charge." Orange eyes swing back around to focus with glittering clarity upon the woman. "I don't mind doing digging. Find some of his own rope to hang him by, if we're not able to use his guts instead." "I know a few blokes wot can 'rrange guts," Mika offhands cheekily, her grin sharklike and her wink a promise. "I'll remember that, though I want to call first dibs," Smoketrail answers with an amused flick of her whiskers, muzzle wrinkling in a sharp-edged smile. "Other'n Longtooth, anyone else I need to know about who's got a vested interest?" Mika's own smile fades into something wan. "Me," she replies. "Look, jus' 'elp me make sure Longtooth an' Swifty come outta this in one piece, an' I'll make 't worth yer while. Silv, I'm not so worried 'bout." Sniffing dryly, she glances away, skinny shoulders shrugging. "Th' people love 'im." "You talking 'bout their reputations or their persons?" Smoketrail asks with a cant of her head, one ear cocked at an angle. "And I wouldn't count on the general populace's love. It turns quick as an eyrling, with just about as much warning," she concludes with disgust and an old, bitter anger. Though the abrupt change in the conversation's tone isn't exactly missed by the good ex-captain, Mika doesn't comment upon it or the sentiments expressed. "Both," she drawls in response, preferring to stick to the question posed rather than rehash history. For all her temporary lapse, Smoketrail seems just as keen to refrain from sinking into that emotional morass; giving her nose a sharp shake and a huff before standing with a single, fluid motion in spite of her full slouch just a moment before. "Anything else?" she asks as a last formality. Mika hazards a sheepish not-quite-grin, arching her brows expectantly. Insufferable to the end, the great mooch of a sometime pirate begs, "Bumbler?" ---- Return to the year 3008. Category: Classic Demarian logs Category:Classic OtherSpace Logs